


Lost Together

by Rococoa



Category: Mindhunter (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Hurt/Comfort, Major Illness, Panic Attacks, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:29:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22521787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rococoa/pseuds/Rococoa
Summary: Both Bill and Holden are isolated and struggling following the events of Season 2, when they are suddenly faced with a new crisis.
Comments: 101
Kudos: 154





	1. Things Fall Apart

BILL'S POV

Things fall apart.

They're words that Bill didn't realize he remembered, from a poem he's forgotten, but lately he can't get them out of his mind. It feels like an apt summation of his life these days.

For anyone trying to avoid their own thoughts, driving through Nebraska is a torment. It’s pure monotony, just vast flat fields and huge empty sky, with every mile looking like the one before it. It feels like Bill’s life, since he arrived home three months ago to an empty house, with no wife and no son. 

The music from the radio has been crowded out by static, blocking even that small means of escape. Bill’s so bored and lonely that even Holden's chatter would be a welcome distraction, but Holden’s dead to the world in the passenger seat. He’s wearing his suit jacket despite the early September warmth, and he snores softly. Bill doesn’t think he’s been feeling well lately - the kid's wan, lethargic, withdrawn. He looks like he's lost weight.

Atlanta cowed Holden, made him sadder and wiser. He’s seen how little truly lies within his own control, and how even good intentions are just as likely to hurt as they are to help. He's distrustful of Bill since their argument on the riverbank, and keeps him at arm's length. It doesn't matter. Bill can’t help him; Bill can't even help himself. 

Bill’s experience helped buffer him from the frustration and disillusionment of Atlanta, but his own crucible awaited him at home. He was married to Nancy for 23 years, half of his life. He still can’t quite bring himself to think too precisely about Brian and the little boy in the vacant house - cigarettes and alcohol help with that.

He knows he needs to clean up the yard and do some painting to get the house ready for sale. He can't find it in himself to care. 

They’ve been talking, he and Nancy. Things are civil, their conversations impersonal and polite. He’s driven out to visit them a few times at Nancy’s parents’ home in Pittsburgh. Nancy says that he’ll have weekends with Brian eventually, but she feels he needs more time before returning to Fredericksburg; she says it would be confusing for him, stir up traumatic memories. When Bill visits, he stays at a hotel. 

He didn’t tell Holden right away. He didn’t plan to keep it from him, but when he came into work that first day back after Atlanta and saw his haunted, dark-ringed eyes, he couldn’t bring himself to burden him any more. Holden can't help him either. The best they could do is to hold their separate peaces.

Holden eventually found out through Wendy, inadvertently. He told Bill he was sorry, then didn't speak or look up from his work for the rest of the day. They never mention it again. 

Things have definitely fallen apart.

Holden grimaces and twitches in his sleep. 

Bill can see the town rising up from the plains long before they arrive there. He pulls into the motel, an anonymous, slightly neglected-looking motor court, as twilight is starting to fall. They haven't eaten anything since sandwiches at the airport around noon, and his stomach is rumbling. He shakes Holden's shoulder. 

"Wha?" Holden slurs, blinking slowly. "Are we there?" 

"Yup. There's a diner across the road. You wanna grab some dinner?"

Holden slowly unfolds himself out of the car and stretches his arms over his head. "I'm not really hungry. I just want to take a shower and call it a night."

“It’s barely eight o’clock.”

Holden looks at him in a way that says he doesn’t care. For someone who just had a two-hour nap, he looks destroyed. He has deep purple bags beneath his eyes and an unhealthy blush on his cheeks. He heaves a world-weary sigh, retrieves his suitcase and garment bag from the trunk and trudges off to the front office, without waiting to see if Bill is following. 

Bill’s heart pinches a little. Holden’s an aggravating little shit and things between them are strained, but with Brian and Nancy gone… Bill doesn’t allow himself to finish the thought. It's too pathetic. He catches up to Holden in a few brisk strides - it’s not hard, the younger agent’s all but dragging his feet in the gravel. They collect their keys at the motel office and find their rooms. They're right beside each other.

Holden twists his key in the lock. “Goodnight Bill.”

“You feel okay?” Bill asks after a second’s pause. “You look a little flushed.”

He expects to be rebuffed, but to Bill’s surprise, Holden sighs and drags a hand over his face. “I know,” he admits. “I’ve been running this fever that just comes and goes, and I’m tired all the time. It’s been weeks and I can’t shake it.”

“Maybe you should think about seeing a doctor,” Bill suggests dryly.

“When?” Holden retorts in the same tone. And he’s right - since they returned from Atlanta, a floodgate has opened. Suddenly every police department with a particularly disturbing or difficult case seems to want them to consult. Between that and their prison interviews, they’re rarely home for more than two nights in a row. Holden usually comes into the office on weekends just to keep up with the pace, something Bill's started to do, too, now that he has so much free time on his hands. 

“I'm probably just run down. I'll take some Tylenol and get some sleep."

Bill almost asks if Holden wants him to bring him something back from the diner, then reminds himself that Holden is an adult. Since Nancy and Brian have been gone, it’s been strange only taking care of himself and no one else. 

“All right. See you in the morning. 8 a.m., remember.”

"I remember." Holden steps into his room and closes the door behind him with a gentle click.

Bill can't sleep that night. It feels strange to lie in a bed; since Nancy left, he's been sleeping either on the couch or in his recliner. She may have been used to sleeping in their bed alone, but he's not, and it feels like he would be reconciling himself to something he's not ready to accept. He's slept in the recliner before when they were arguing, and when he wakes up in the dark, it helps him to pretend that's all this is, a fight that they'll move past just as they always used to. 

During road school, he got used to sharing a room with Holden. He grew accustomed to Holden's sounds - his soft snoring, the creak of him shifting position on a lumpy spring mattress, the occasional unintelligible muttering in his sleep. While Bill would never admit it, not even to himself, it became a constant that made sleeping in a different bed for four nights of every week bearable.

He listens to see if he can hear anything through the thin motel walls - running water, a TV, anything - but he can’t. It’s like Holden may as well not be there at all.

***

“So why steal the panties? That seems like a risk, when you could just walk into Woolworths and buy some.”

It’s the following day, and they’re at the Nebraska State Penitentiary in Lincoln, interviewing Richard Ramsey, a former professor of engineering at the University of Nebraska Omaha. While he had been working his way up to becoming chair of his department and the Dean of the Faculty of Arts and Humanities, he’d also been steadily escalating from stealing panties from laundromats and clotheslines, to breaking and entering, to abducting, raping and murdering four local women in the late 1960s and early ‘70s.

Holden cocks his head and waits for an answer.

Ramsey tips his head back and steeples his fingers. The overhead lighting bounces off the lenses of his bulky prison-issue glasses. “It wasn’t the panties,” he said slowly, pronouncing the word like it was something distasteful, instead of an item he’d stolen at least two thousand times, by his own estimation, throughout his adult life. “It was the transgression of it. I didn’t want panties from a store. My wife - well, ex-wife, now - she’s a very progressive-minded person, she probably would have given me some of hers if I’d asked. I wanted something I’d stolen from a woman. It was about something intimate, personal, that she wouldn’t want most people to see, and I just walk in and help myself. I stole sex toys, too, if I found them,” he adds helpfully. “Of course, that wasn’t until later on, when I’d started breaking into their houses.”

“When did you start breaking into houses?”

“Let’s see. Probably about, I don’t know, 1966 maybe?”

“You weren’t arrested until 1972. How did you break into houses over a period of six years, up to two houses a week at times, by your own admission, and not get caught?”

He shrugs. “I was smart about it. I planned ahead. I always had my eye on a few houses at a time, and when I knew it was empty, I’d sneak in through an unlocked garage or a basement window. And I only ever took one or two pairs, so I don’t think most of them even realized anything was missing. Like I said, it wasn’t about panties. They were just… spoils of victory.”

“Spoils of victory?” Bill repeats.

“Well, yes, in a sense. I’d transgressed boundaries and gotten away with it. Easily, I might add. At first it was enough to paw through a woman’s underwear at a laundromat. And then that got tiresome, so I started breaking into houses. And I would walk around in her bedroom and bathroom, and go through her closet and her lingerie and maybe try some on if I found things I liked, and then take home a souvenir. And as I did it more and more often, and grew more and more daring, at the same time that my career was taking off and I was becoming recognized as a foremost authority in my field, it became something I felt I was entitled to do. I could do what I wanted, no one could refuse me, I wouldn’t allow it. And that satisfied me for a long time.”

“But eventually you kidnapped Belinda Pembury.”

“How much further could I go, then to steal panties with a real woman inside them?”

Even Holden’s impassive expression slips a little at that, and Bill decides he’s had enough for one day. They’ve been at it for hours anyway, and Ramsey doesn’t seem like he would mind continuing their conversation tomorrow - he’d probably look forward to it, if anything. 

“Professor Ramsey, I appreciate you speaking with us today, but it’s getting late in the day,” he says courteously. “We discussed that the interview would probably take two days, do you mind if we pick this up tomorrow?”

“Certainly. Thank you for coming,” Ramsey says, as if he’d just finished hosting them for a dinner party. He stands and extends his hand to shake.

Holden stands up. 

Holden goes down.

The kid's legs give out beneath him. He starts to crumple, but Bill manages to catch him under the arms and ease him back into his chair. 

"Head between your knees. Breathe," Bill instructs, grabbing Holden by the nape and forcing his head down. He's conscious, but his eyes are glazed, his face paper-white, and his whole body trembles. He clutches Bill's arm. "I've got you. You're okay."

"Good God," says Ramsey, huge-eyed. "Guard! Guard!" he calls urgently. 

"I'm gonna throw up," Holden whimpers, barely audible. 

"Not here," Bill hisses. "Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth."

The guards appear, rushing in with a rattling of keys and clanking of locks. "Agent Ford's ill," Ramsey tells them.

Holden breathes, and straightens up with effort. "I'm all right. Just a little lightheaded."

"You almost fainted," says Ramsey skeptically. 

"Are you sure you're all right, Agent Ford?" The guard looks dubious, too.

"Yes, I'm fine, thank you," Holden says firmly. The colour's slowly returning to his face. He gets to his feet, but Bill notices that he hangs onto the back of his chair for a few extra beats. "We're done for today, thanks. We’ll see you tomorrow, Professor.”

Ramsey just stares, nonplussed.

Bill marches Holden to the car, gripping him by the upper arm as if he's a perp. The silence is deadly.

"What the hell was that?" Bill spits, once they're on the road. "That wasn't one of your fits, was it?"

"No Bill," Holden spits right back, "I haven't been feeling well and I skipped lunch. I stood up too fast and I got dizzy."

Bill white-knuckles the steering wheel and forces some artificial calm into his voice. "Okay, here's what's going to happen. I will go back to the prison tomorrow and finish Ramsey’s' interview. You will stay at the motel. And when we get back, you're going to see a doctor. Your health is none of my business, but when you're collapsing on the job, in front of a subject? You make it my business. Understand?" 

"I didn't collapse," Holden mutters.

"Because I caught you. Are we really gonna do this?"

"No. You're right. That can't happen again." 

The quick capitulation worries Bill even more. His anger bleeds away.

"I'm sorry, Bill," Holden sighs and leans his head against the window. "I keep thinking whatever this is will get better on its own, but it isn't. I go to bed early every night and I'm doing my best to eat properly, but it's not helping." He chews his lower lip, brow furrowed.

"Maybe you just need an antibiotic or something," Bill offers. "Who knows, maybe just a vacation. You must have a shit ton of vacation saved up." As far as Bill can recall, Holden's never taken a vacation. Bill's banked quite a bit of time himself; nobody took any time off during Atlanta, so he still has his full year's allotment plus ten days that he just carries over from year to year in case of emergency. Bill has a sudden self-destructive impulse to take it all at once and fuck off to Atlantic City or somewhere to drink and gamble all day. If he goes broke or pickles his liver, fine. If not, fine. None of it matters anymore. The emptiness, which he'd managed to forget for the past few hours, comes flooding back. Holden's not going to take a vacation, for the same reason he won't. Work is all they have. 

Holden doesn't say anything more. Bill doesn't either. They're both lost in themselves, alone in each other's company.

***

They get back to Virginia on a Friday night. Bill comes into the office on Saturday, but Holden's not there.

Holden calls in sick on Monday. He calls in again every day for the rest of the week. He doesn't elaborate. 

Bill tries phoning him a few times. He only picks up once, and he sounds so tired and distracted that Bill ends the call almost immediately. 

It's strange, with no wife or son at home, and now no Holden at work. At least at work he used to be able to forget for awhile, but now he just sees Holden's empty desk and it's a reminder of all the other empty spaces in his life. He buys frozen TV dinners and corned beef for sandwiches. He eats in his recliner in front of the TV, the same place where he smokes, drinks and sleeps, a living island in a dark dead house. He works on the weekend again, and Holden doesn't come in then, either. 

Bill's sitting in the Monday morning meeting with Wendy and Gregg, when Holden walks in unannounced. His suit and hair are impeccable as ever, but his shoulders slump and he looks like he's aged ten years. 

Wendy speaks first. "Holden. Welcome back, we were getting worried. Are you feeling better?" She smiles at him, but he refuses to meet her eyes. He doesn't sit down. 

Holden stares at his shoes. He clears his throat. “Um, I’m not. Back, that is. I just wanted to let you know.” 

Three pairs of eyes are fixed on him, unblinking.

“I just met with Gunn, and I'm on sick leave. Indefinitely.”

“Jesus,” Bill blurts out. “What the hell happened?”

Holden squirms. “My doctor found some - lumps, in my neck and under my arm. I had a biopsy, and um, it's Hodgkin's disease."

“Hodgkin's disease,” Bill repeats. It sounds familiar somehow. 

“Yeah. It's a -" Holden looks away and clears his throat again. “It's cancer. Of the lymphatic system, whatever that is. Glands, apparently.”

“Aw kid,” Bill breathes. He can't think of any words. He feels an inexplicable stab of guilt, like he was somehow to blame. It should be me. Gregg just stares, apparently at a loss for words.

“Do you know your prognosis?” asks Wendy, ever the straight shooter. 

“Not yet. I’ve seen an oncologist and they have to do more tests – “ he swallows, “ – to see how far it's spread. Stage 1 is best, and Stage 4 is the worst. But so far they know mine is at least Stage 2.”

“Do you have a treatment plan?"

Holden nods, still not looking anyone in the eye. “I'll start chemotherapy in the next week or so. Probably followed by radiation." He shoves his hands in his pockets and scuffs his toe on the floor. “I asked about working during treatment, but the doctor said no. Gunn said no, too.” Tears form in his eyes for the first time, and he blinks them back.

“Holden,” says Wendy gently. She reaches out to touch his arm, and he flinches. She pulls her hand back. “Take the time, you need it. We'll miss you, and we’ll certainly miss your contributions, but the BSU will still be here when you're ready to come back.”

“It's going to be nearly a year, and that's if everything goes well.” Holden's voice quavers. “I mean, why now, when we're just getting the recognition and legitimacy we've been working for?"

“I'm so sorry, Holden. There is no reason and there's never a good time. But now you just need to take care of yourself, nothing is more important than that.”

Holden looks at her skeptically, as if to say they both know that's not true. “Anyway, Gunn says you should look into hiring a replacement for me while I'm off. I mentioned Jim Barney, but it's up to you. I just wanted to let you all know.” He nods stiffly and turns to leave.

“Holden,” Bill says, finding his voice. He gets up to follow him. “Hey. Hang on a minute. Let's go to the cafeteria, I’ll buy you a coffee.”

Holden looks hesitant. 

“C’mon."

He sighs. “All right."

The silence in the elevator is thick and heavy. It hangs over them as they stand in line and fix their coffees - Bill with double sugar and cream, Holden with milk. 

“OK, kid, I need you to level with me,” Bill says once they've sat down.

Holden looks nonplussed. "I told you, Bill. I'll be off work for at least a year."

"I'm not worried about work. I'm worried about you. How treatable is this thing?”

“I don't know. Pretty treatable if they catch it early enough, I guess. I've been reading some stuff that says 80 percent of people diagnosed with Stage 1 Hodgkin's are still alive after five years." 

"But you said yours is at least Stage 2."

"Yes." Holden didn't say anything more. 

"Will you be in the hospital?"

"Yeah, sometimes. For the first chemo treatment, at least, and then it'll depend on how I'm doing." Holden stares down into his coffee and the corner of his mouth twitches. "The oncologist says it's going to make me pretty sick."

“What are you gonna do? Who's going to look after you while you have chemo for the next, what, year, is it?”

“Eight months. Then radiation,” Holden corrects quietly. "I don't know. I'll just look after myself. Plenty of people do." 

Bill doesn't know much about Holden's personal life. He knows he's an only child, that his mother is dead and his father's not in the picture, for reasons he's never shared. He's never mentioned any girlfriends since Debbie, or any friends at all for that matter. "There isn't anybody who can stay with you?" 

A small shake of the head. "Don't worry about it. I'll manage. It's not your problem."

"Look, Holden, if you ever need anything - anything - you know you can call me, right? If you need someone to drive you to an appointment, or get groceries or run errands… whatever you need," Bill finishes lamely. It sounds inadequate. "And I'm sure Wendy and Gregg feel the same. I know you're tough and you'll get through this, but you don't have to do it alone."

"Thanks, Bill. I appreciate it." Holden clears his throat. "I need to get going, there's a lot of stuff I have to take care of."

"Sure." Bill stands up too. "But you will call, right? Let me know what’s going on. If there's anything I can do."

"Sure," Holden echoes. They look at each other for an awkward moment, then he reaches out and shakes Bill's hand. There's an odd formality in the gesture. "Bye, Bill."

Bill watches impotently as Holden turns and briskly walks away, dropping his nearly full coffee cup into the nearest receptacle. He rounds a corner and he's gone.

Things fall apart.


	2. A River in Egypt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to moonrocks for beta-reading!

Holden doesn't call.

Instead, it's "Susan, a social worker at Mary Washington Cancer Centre" who finally calls him at work, over a week later. 

Bill's lounging with his feet on the desk; they hit the floor when he hears that. He's been increasingly pissed off the last few days. What kind of self-absorbed, inconsiderate asshole announces he has cancer and suddenly falls off the face of the earth? The Holden Ford kind, evidently. He's been trying to allow Holden space, to respect his process or whatever psychological crap Wendy's been going on about, but the kid has no right … There are people worrying, for God's sake, wondering what's going on, and he doesn't have the goddamn common courtesy to pick up the fucking phone?

But now Bill’s just scared shitless.

"Has something happened?"

"He's all right," she assures quickly, "but he's had a few procedures done today and he had to have some sedation. Our policy is, we can't release unless he has a responsible person to pick him up."

Bill pinches the bridge of his nose. "You mean, like pick him up now? No offence, but this seems like the kind of thing that should be figured out ahead of time."

There’s a slight pause. "The sedation was unplanned," she says carefully, and Bill gets it. 

_Jesus Christ, Holden._

"OK, yeah, I'll be there soon. Thank you for calling."

The Cancer Centre is a recent addition to the hospital, a reflective glass edifice surrounded by raised flowerbeds. He asks about Holden at the reception desk. Susan comes out to meet him, a heavyset woman in her thirties with a mane of wild red hair. 

"He's been awake for a while," she tells Bill. “He's not very happy that I called you. He hasn't given me permission to share any information."

Bill sighs. "Of course he hasn't." 

"As general knowledge, though, all of our patients are welcome to bring a support person to their appointments," she says meaningfully, looking at him over the top of her glasses. 

She leads him to a small room marked Consultation Room 3. Inside, Holden sits slumped in a vinyl-upholstered recliner. He looks alert enough to Bill - after a year and a half of Valium, he's probably developed a tolerance to barbiturates, Bill realizes sadly - and his expression is deeply unhappy. 

"Hey Bill," he says faintly, without looking him in the face. 

"Hey," Bill repeats, carefully keeping his tone neutral. "What happened here?"

"What do you think?" Holden mumbles. He chews his lower lip. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean for them to call you. But you're still my emergency contact."

"It's fine. Are you good to go?"

"Yeah." Holden struggles to his feet. He seems stiff, hunched over, and he holds his right arm rigid against his side.

"Bye, Holden. Think about what we discussed," Susan says kindly.

"Yeah, okay. Bye," Holden mutters back. 

"You okay?" Bill asks as he watches Holden shuffle down the hallway like he's ninety years old instead of thirty-two. 

"Yeah, just really sore. Some of the stuff they had to do." He doesn't offer any more, just hobbles alongside Bill as they make their way to the elevators. Bill almost reaches out to take his arm, but the look on Holden's face stops him.

Holden leans heavily on the wall of the elevator and takes deep, deliberate breaths. Clammy perspiration glistens on his temples. He manages to limp through the hospital doors and makes it almost as far as the parking lot. He sinks down onto the edge of a large concrete planter full of chrysanthemums and screws up his eyes in pain. 

"Stop, stop," he pants, putting a hand on his lower back. His right arm is still tucked protectively to his body. 

"Did you start chemo today? Is that what this is?"

Holden shakes his head. "No, chemo starts on Friday. Today they put in a Hickman catheter and did a bone marrow biopsy."

Bill frowns. "A catheter?"

"For chemotherapy. The drugs have to go into a large vein. It's sort of like an IV that stays in all the time." 

Holden yanks down the collar of his t-shirt. Dangling out from a dressing on his right pectoral is a thin white tube that branches off into two smaller lines, each with a plastic clamp and red cap on the end. Bill can't help but stare, it just looks so wrong against Holden's smooth, pale chest. 

"So now I have to walk around for the next eight months with this thing hanging out of me. Then they stuck a needle into my pelvis, at the back,” he pulls in a sharp breath, "to suck out some bone marrow. _It felt like I was being stabbed_. I guess I jumped because all of a sudden this huge male nurse was pinning me down and that's when, well, you know." 

"Shit." Bill shakes his head, appalled. "And they did all that today? While you were awake? And they were just gonna send you home until they had to sedate you."

"Yeah, I don't know, somehow I didn't think it would be so… I don't know, so like it was. It was a lot." Holden buries his face in his hands, takes a few more deep breaths. “Anyway. I just want to go home." 

He stands gingerly and they move slowly through the parking lot. 

They reach Bill’s car and Holden lets Bill ease him into the passenger seat. Bill reaches over to buckle him in, but Holden waves him away. “Not with the catheter. Just… drive carefully.”

Holden leans his head back and closes his eyes as Bill pulls out into traffic. He’s so pale that his faded freckles are pronounced on his nose and cheeks, and he’s lost more weight since Bill last saw him. He hasn’t looked especially well for a while now, but this is the first time he seems truly _sick_. Bill feels a pang in his chest.

“You know, everyone’s wondering how you are.”

Holden doesn’t answer, doesn’t even move. 

“Chemo starts on Friday?”

He nods. Swallows. 

“And you said you’re gonna have to be in the hospital?” 

_Christ, it’s like pulling teeth._

Holden nods again.

“How long?”

Holden shrugs.

“Jesus, can you just talk to me?”

“I told you. Today was the catheter and the bone marrow biopsy. Friday is chemo. Look, I appreciate the concern, but I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Christ, Holden,” Bill says, starting to lose patience. “They put a tube in your chest and stuck a needle in your pelvis, how did you think you were gonna manage today on your own? Especially with your - problem.”

“I don’t know. I just… I didn’t want anyone to come. It’s done now. Moving on.”

“Moving on?” Bill scoffs disdainfully. “Moving on, you’ve got eight months of chemotherapy ahead. You planning to do that by yourself too?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Just… don’t worry about it.”

“And don’t tell me not to worry about it!” The heat in Bill's voice surprises even Bill himself. “Look at yourself, you're a mess. What am I supposed to say here? ‘That’s fine, then, you’ve clearly thought things through and have everything under control?’ Seriously, kid.“ 

“Why do you even care anyway?” Holden mutters.

“Because we’re partners, Holden, and this is a big deal. You have to talk to me about this." 

Holden’s eyes pop open. “Really? I _have_ to talk to you? That's pretty rich coming from you, Bill.”

“Holden -”

“If my paperwork from Personnel is correct, we’re not partners anymore. I’m on ‘long-term disability' now.”

Bill struggles to keep his voice low. “You know what I mean.”

“I don’t, actually, because I don’t _have_ to tell you anything." Holden's almost shouting.

"God, Holden, what do you want? I'm just supposed to drop everything and come get you at a moment's notice, whenever you need it, but God forbid I'm actually concerned about you."

“Then don't come!” Holden exclaims. “If you’re just going to hold it over my head for a year and a half, I’d rather you didn’t,” he adds under his breath. 

"What's that?"

"You know what," Holden snaps. "I don't need your concern and I don't want it."

"Until you have another fit or something and call me for help."

"I don't have 'fits,' I have panic disorder. And the social worker called you, not me."

"Because I'm your emergency contact."

"I'll take you off. You won't be inconvenienced any more."

"Christ, Holden, I didn't think even your ego was that fragile."

“It's not, I just don’t trust you.”

The words land like a gut punch. “You don’t - after all the times I covered for you - you ungrateful piece of shit, no wonder you’re alone.”

Holden's laugh is ugly. "Look around, Bill! So are you. And you can stop acting like I owe you something, like I have to answer to you, because I’m not your wife who left and took your fucking kid with her.” 

The car almost jumps the curb. It squeals to a stop.

“Get out,” Bill hisses.

Holden looks startled.

“I said, get the fuck out of my car.”

Holden tries, but the seat is too low and he only succeeds in falling on his ass. He struggles onto his knees, cursing. 

“Holden -” Bill sighs. He slides over and reaches out for him. 

With a violent effort, Holden staggers upright and slams the car door. "Go fuck yourself," he snarls. "Leave me alone."

_Fuck this kid._

Bill stomps on the gas and peels off. Every nerve in his body is humming with anger. He may have nothing but a recliner, a TV dinner, and the television waiting for him at home, but it's better than putting up with Holden and his bullshit. He's sick of worrying about people who obviously can't be bothered with him. 

_You want to be alone, kid? You got it._

***

_Fuck you, Bill,_ Holden rages in his head as Bill's car speeds away. 

It's like Bill thinks he's choosing this. As if he wants to have panic attacks, and tumours in his neck and his armpit, and a "nascent mediastinal mass" forming between his lungs. 

Call me if you need anything, says Bill, but whenever Holden actually does need something, Bill resents him for it. He flings it back in his face, saves it to use again later when he wants to make him feel like shit. Keeps him in the dark.

Somehow he makes it back to his apartment, drawing strength from his anger. It’s a good thing they were almost there when Bill kicked him out, because he feels like he might die. 

His hip and lower back are screaming. The stitches around the catheter pull when he moves his arm, and the tubing bumps against his chest with every step, like something dead hanging out of him. The sensation makes him nauseous. His heart gallops.

The doorman stares at him like he's some kind of alien. Holden waves him off and shuffles into the elevator. 

Holden barely makes it to his couch before collapsing. A tremendous pressure crushes his chest and he can't breathe. It reminds him of his childhood asthma attacks, when he would wake up in the middle of the night and feel like he'd been buried alive. 

He needs to breathe. That's all he has to do at this moment, just breathe. One minute at a time, that's how he's going to get through this.

He imagines he's by the ocean, and his breaths are the sound of the waves on the shore, one after another after another.

Slowly, his muscles start to relax and his lungs unclench. The waves come slower, fall into a steady rhythm. He sits up and rakes his hands through his hair, digs today’s pamphlet - _Caring for Your Central Venous Catheter_ \- out of the pocket of his slacks and crumples it up. 

There's a goddamn pamphlet for everything.

Every time he turns around there's another appointment he has to go to, where someone's waiting to touch him or stick him with something sharp, and they always, _always_ hand him a pamphlet or several. He hates papers laying around. He skims each one, absorbs as much as he dares, and drops it into a paper grocery bag in his closet. 

_Hodgkin's lymphoma is an uncommon, relatively aggressive cancer of the blood and lymphatic system… painless swellings in the neck, chest, armpit and groin… can be treated effectively if diagnosed at an early stage...generalized symptoms (fatigue, fever, night sweats) are often associated with advanced disease and poorer outcomes…_

Into the bag. 

_...Side effects of the MOPP chemotherapy regimen commonly include fatigue, nausea, vomiting, constipation... alopecia (hair loss), chills, weakened immune system, excessive bruising and/or bleeding…_

_...Long-term side effects may include increased risk of heart attack, stroke, endocrine disorders, scarring of the lungs…. 20 percent of patients treated with MOPP will go on to develop secondary cancers such as leukemia…_

Into the bag.

They give him phone numbers printed on fridge magnets - for the Cancer Centre, the American Cancer Society, a crisis hotline. He hates fridge magnets.

Dr. Rashad, the oncologist, keeps asking about social support and his plans for managing at home during chemotherapy. He doesn't like Holden's answers and repeats that he needs to take his situation seriously.

It's not that he doesn't. But he also doesn't have a time machine or the ability to bring back the dead, so there's no one, whether Dr. Rashad refers him to a social worker or not.

_Following a cancer diagnosis, you may experience feelings of grief and loss… may struggle to accept the many changes that accompany serious illness… remember, "denial" is not just a river in Egypt!_

And he's getting lectured about taking things seriously. Into the fucking bag. 

Holden kicks off his shoes and eases himself up to put them in the closet. He tosses the catheter pamphlet into the bag with the others. He’s heard enough about Hickman lines to last him a lifetime. 

He pads sock-footed into the bathroom and slowly undresses. He stares at his shower and ponders how he's going to manage this since he can't shower with a Hickman and he doesn't have a bathtub. He hates baths anyway. There's nothing clean about a person marinating in their own dirty water. 

He gets his big mixing bowl from the kitchen and takes a makeshift sponge bath standing in the shower stall. Compared to a shower, the washcloth feels criminally stingy and unsatisfying; without steam, the bathroom stays cold. By the time he finishes, his teeth are chattering.

It's oddly uncomfortable being naked, even by himself. His body feels almost like a trusted pet that's suddenly turned feral. What was once familiar is now dangerous and unknowable and outside of his control. The catheter doesn't help; he looks in the mirror and a sick person looks back at him. He pulls on a sweatshirt and pyjama bottoms and he looks like himself again. He tries to imagine himself with his hair gone, but he can't.

He sets his ironing board up in front of the TV, turns on the news, and plugs in the iron. He doesn’t really need to iron, it’s not as if he has to go to work, but it’s mindless and familiar and it just seems like the right thing to do. 

He’s not sure why he was such an asshole to Bill. But then he’s not sure why Bill’s been such an asshole to him. 

Holden hasn't had many friends during his life. He knows that most people find him strange, awkward, intense, even though he considers himself normal enough in most respects. They don't like him, for reasons he doesn't quite grasp. 

But he used to think he and Bill were friends. 

Holden runs the hissing iron methodically over his slacks and shirts until every wrinkle is steamed and pressed into submission, the way it's supposed to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Your feedback is always appreciated!


	3. Agents of Chemical Warfare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short one as I don't know if I'll be able to update this weekend. 
> 
> C/W: vomiting

Three weeks ago, he was on his way home from Nebraska. It feels like a different lifetime. 

Friday morning finds Holden back at Mary Washington Cancer Centre. The reception staff know him by now, and the clerk smiles at him as she attaches his hospital bracelet and a red wristband with PENICILLIN ALLERGY written on it. She looks a bit surprised when she sees his garment bag. 

Holden knows it was silly, but he got through packing by pretending he was getting ready for another out-of-town trip with Bill, albeit with a few extra t-shirts and a second pair of pyjama pants. The only place he’s going today is Inpatient Oncology on the third floor, but still, they are his clothes and he wants them. 

Upstairs, a friendly nurse named Caroline shows him to his room. It’s a double, currently unoccupied, with a window overlooking the street. “Here’s a gown for you,” Caroline tells him. “Or you can wear your own pyjamas if you’d rather.”

“Do I have to?” he asks. It comes out closer to a whisper than he intended.

She gives him such a sympathetic look, it makes his skin crawl. “You can wear anything you like, as long as your Hickman’s accessible. Did Dr. Rashad explain the treatments to you?”

He nods. His mouth is dry and there’s a knot in his throat.

“Do you have any questions?”

He shakes his head. 

“Okay, I’ll give you a few minutes to settle in, and then we’ll get started. The doctor will come by in a while to see how you’re doing.”

He doesn’t need a few minutes; he just takes off his shoes, unbuttons the top half of his shirt, and sits on the edge of the bed to wait. 

_Many patients find it helpful to bring their own pillow or blanket from home…_

He has a red-and-blue striped afghan that he wraps up in whenever he’s sick. His mother knitted it for him when he went away to college, and he was tempted to bring it. He overruled himself, though, and left it in the closet. He’s a grown man, for God’s sake.

He closes his eyes and imagines the ocean. Breathes. One minute at a time. 

Caroline comes back, pushing a cart loaded with supplies. He follows her directions robotically. Swallows some pills - procarbazine, prednisone, something to help with nausea, something to help keep him regular. Pulls down the neck of his t-shirt so she can examine his catheter. Manages a twitch of a smile when she tells him he’s healing very nicely and she’s getting good blood return. Sits patiently while she changes the dressing and flushes the lines. 

His throat seizes when she attaches the IV bag. It must show on his face, because she smiles kindly and tells him it’s just saline, to make sure he’s well-hydrated before she administers the intravenous drugs. The drugs that make the catheter necessary in the first place, because they would shrivel a smaller vein like an earthworm on a hot sidewalk. 

Those come next. Caroline pops in and out of his room, chattering soothingly about the nice weather and the pretty leaves, until the saline bag is empty. She removes it and attaches two smaller bags, one on each branch of the Hickman, and starts them dripping away.

_Mustargen and Oncovin are powerful vesicants (blistering agents)... prevent cells from duplicating by damaging the structure of their DNA... initially studied as a potential agent of chemical warfare prior to World War II…_

Holden fights the panicky impulse to pull the line out of his chest. He desperately wishes someone would hold his hand. Instead, he balls them into fists on his lap. He’s afraid he might cry. He can’t breathe around the knot in his throat. 

“Dr. Rashad left orders for something to help you relax, if you’d like,” Caroline offers gently. He’s sure she knows about what happened at the bone marrow biopsy. Everyone probably knows. At least he doesn’t have to worry about maintaining pretences. He nods gratefully. 

“I’m sorry, honey, I’m going to have to stick you,” she says regretfully as she draws up the syringe. Holden wonders why she’s so apologetic about a simple injection. It seems a curious set of priorities, considering what's seeping through his bloodstream at this very moment. She gives him the shot in his arm and hands him a cotton swab to put pressure on the site. He’s literally being _poisoned_ , but it would be a shame if he bruised.

Whatever it is, it’s a lot stronger than Valium, and Holden instantly feels himself starting to droop. Caroline helps him stretch out on the bed and he curls up on his side. She brings him a blanket from the warmer in the hall and spreads it over him. 

“There you go. Just relax, honey. You’re doing so well.”

Holden dreams he’s laying at the bottom of a deep swimming pool. The water is brisk and dappled with sunlight, and he can breathe. 

He opens his eyes and his mother is there, smiling at him. Holden smiles back, but her face warps and she transforms into a nurse standing over his bed.

“Hi Holden,” she says. Her name is Caroline, he remembers. “I’m sorry, but I have to check your vitals, okay? How are you feeling now?”

He lifts his head and vomits down the front of his shirt.

***

It doesn’t get any better from there. Caroline helps him out of his soiled clothes and into a hospital gown, and gets him another warmed blanket. He’s somehow too cold and too hot all at once. The room tilts and spins, and his body feels like it’s trying to turn itself inside out to get rid of the poison. It’s all he can do to raise his head to vomit in a basin, rather than on his bed or himself. 

Caroline wipes his face with a damp cloth in between heaves. “It’s okay, Holden,” she keeps murmuring. “Just relax, you’re okay.”

He has no sense of time passing - it could be minutes, or hours - but he finally stops retching. His stomach is a vortex of nausea, and he curls up on his side, shivering and dripping cold sweat. Every muscle and joint aches, and a migraine hammers away at his temples. It’s like the worst flu he’s ever had, amplified by orders of magnitude. He's sure he’s dying. 

Caroline asks if he wants a fresh gown, but he whispers no. He doesn’t dare move or shake his head or even open his eyes; if he can stay absolutely still and quiet, maybe he won’t throw up again. Caroline waits with him for a few minutes, until she seems satisfied that he's settled. She puts a clean basin next to him on the bed, and tugs his blanket up around his shoulders. “Just press the call button if you need anything,” she tells him gently, then tiptoes away, dimming the lights and leaving his door ajar. 

The room smells like vomit and antiseptic. He wishes he'd brought his afghan. And his radio or tape deck. He needs something to listen to besides his own ragged breathing. 

Three weeks ago he was flying home from Nebraska. It's not fair.

He wants his mom, or Debbie, or Bill. But no one's coming. 

He can't move. Can't make a noise. If he does, he'll be sick. He's too tired anyway. When he finally cries, it's still and soundless.


	4. Agents of Chemical Warfare - Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, so this is another short one. It's best read as a sort of continuation of Chapter 3. In hindsight, I should have waited and posted them as one.  
> Future updates will be longer, if slightly less frequent, so thank you for bearing with me! ♥️

The night passes in a carousel of sleep and sickness and shadowy soft-voiced figures coming and going. By Saturday morning, Holden's almost in a stupor. He lies curled in a ball, one hand loosely gripping the bed rail, staring at the wall. A bag of saline drips steadily through his catheter.

A nurse raps gently on his door. He moves his eyes but not his head. "Hello. Are you up to visitors?"

_Bill?_

He slowly pushes himself into a sitting position. The motion makes his stomach flip, and he swallows hard. His mouth tastes awful. 

"Yes," he croaks. His voice is wrecked. 

"All right. I'll get you some ice chips too." 

Holden tugs his gown over the Hickman and tries to smooth down his hair. He's sticky with old sweat and his whole room probably smells bad; he can't tell anymore and there's nothing he can do about it anyway. 

He hopes this means Bill forgives him. 

But it's Wendy and Jim Barney who walk in, carrying a cookie tin and a potted African violet and wearing big identical smiles that flicker when they see him. He wonders what he looks like.

"Hi, Holden," Wendy says warmly, pulling a chair up to his bedside. "I thought I'd pay you a visit and see how you're feeling. Jim wanted to say hello too."

"Hey, it's great to see you again." Jim shakes his hand. "I wish it were under different circumstances, though. I'm sorry, I couldn't believe it when Wendy told me."

Holden nods. He doesn't know what to say. 

"Bill wanted to come, but he's visiting Brian this weekend," Wendy tells him. "And the flu's going around Gregg's house, so he didn't want to risk getting you sick. He sent these for you, though."

Wendy reaches into her purse and hands him some construction paper cards. They're cute - "Get Well Soon" in painstaking childish letters, drawings of flowers and smiling suns, heart stickers. One is just a big purple scribble. Holden smiles a little, and Jim and Wendy both beam.

"And my wife insisted on making you some of her gingersnap cookies," says Jim. 

Holden’s guts roil at the thought of cookies, but he forces a smile. "That’s really nice of her. Tell her thank you for me," he says, his voice giving out at the end. 

Jim and Wendy exchange a look. 

"Bill said you had your first chemotherapy treatment yesterday," says Wendy. "How did it go?"

It was _sensational,_ he almost says. Then he feels a bit guilty, because he knows they’re genuinely concerned. But he doesn't know how to explain what it's like.

"It was fine," he whispers. They weren't there. They won't understand. 

"When do you have to do another?"

"It goes on a 28-day cycle. IV drugs on days 1 and 8. Oral medication on days 1 through 14. Days 15 to 28 are a recovery period," he recites tonelessly. He doesn't want to talk about it. Doesn't want to think about doing this all again in a week.

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm OK." He _really_ doesn't want to talk about it. "What did you make of the Ramsey interview?"

The conversation redirects, and he feels better. It's easier to talk about work than about himself, and Jim and Wendy seem glad to be back in familiar territory. They fall into an easy rhythm, tossing ideas back and forth, and for a few minutes everything seems almost normal.

They're talking about an interview Jim and Gregg will be doing together, when Jim suddenly says, "Oh, and Gregg mentioned there's a house for sale on his street. Three bedrooms, great school district. I've got an appointment with the realtor to take a look."

Holden's brought up short. He stares.

"You know I'm coming back, right?"

Jim glances uncertainly at Wendy. She smiles at Holden indulgently. 

"Of course. With things as busy as they are, I'm sure there will be more than enough work to justify four full-time agents once you return."

They gave away his job. Gunn and Wendy _gave it away,_ and Jim _took_ it. How could they _do_ that? How could Bill let them do that? He can feel his shoulders tensing. He drops his eyes. 

Wendy sighs. "Your job isn't going anywhere, Holden. I mean it. But you said yourself that it's going to be a year, if not more. We need to be proactive."

Being proactive, is that what this is? Why don't they just proactively start writing his eulogy? 

"Jim's the best candidate by far. He's more than qualified, he's familiar with the unit and he works well with you and Bill. He also has a family, and understandably he needs some… assurances before uprooting everyone to move to Virginia."

"It's fine," Holden says shortly. "I understand. You all have to plan ahead." He doesn't get to plan ahead. Three weeks ago he would have said this whole situation was impossible. 

Pay him a visit, his ass. More like buzzards come to circle.

Wendy and Jim don't stay for long after that. They can tell they've upset him and he knows it. He knows he's being unreasonable, but anger is pressurizing inside of him and it's all he can do not to explode.

Whenever he used to feel this way, he'd go for a run, pounding his frustration into the ground until his mind was clear again. Now he can't even walk to the bathroom without holding onto his IV pole.

He doesn't know what to do anymore. 

He rakes his hands through his hair. A few short, dark strands drift down onto the pillowcase. 

There's nothing he can do. He's stuck as surely as an insect in amber, while the rest of the world moves on and leaves him behind. 

He draws up his knees and turns his face to the wall.


	5. Could Have, Would Have

Bill sits listlessly in his recliner, a cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other, watching the ghosts and witches and skeletons frolicking in the street. 

He bought some Halloween candy as part of his ongoing efforts at normalcy, but he ate most of it himself over the past week and now he just doesn’t feel like handing out what's left. All the neighbours know about Brian, and that Nancy left, and he’s not in the mood to talk to any of them. 

Halloween is a family holiday, and he refuses to be a 47 year old man carving a jack-o’lantern by himself. Instead, he's a 47 year old man sitting in the dark in his own living room, hiding from the neighbour kids. 

When they were childless, holidays and special occasions were bittersweet. For Halloween, Nancy always put on a good front; she gave out homemade candy apples and lovingly decorated cookies, and cooed over the little kids in their costumes. But her eyes would slowly get larger and sadder, and when the treats were finally gone, she would blow out the jack o’lantern and close herself inside the bathroom for a long time. 

This is the fifth Halloween since Brian’s adoption. The first year was a buzz of excitement as Nancy dressed Brian in his little homemade dalmation costume, and Bill’s heart ached with pride as he walked down the driveway with Brian’s tiny hand in his, taking his own son to go trick-or-treating. Brian went to all of about seven houses before lying down on the sidewalk and refusing to get up, his own limp, silent version of a temper tantrum. He didn’t have the slightest interest in costumes, or candy, or Bill for that matter. Bill finally picked him up and carried him home, the treat bag dangling from Brian’s fist like a deflated balloon. 

The next year, they dressed him as a clown and he went to about a dozen houses before mounting passive resistance.

Years three and four, Bill wasn’t there. He was on the road with Holden, although he no longer recalls exactly where they were or what they were doing. Nancy took photos of astronaut Brian and cowboy Brian, and Bill made all the appropriate sounds about being sorry he missed it and wishing he could have been there. But all the while he was secretly relieved that he’d been spared another disappointing Halloween with his solemn, inscrutable son. 

He wonders how Brian is dressing up this year. It’s been a couple of weeks since he last spoke to Nancy. She’s been busy with Brian and her new job at a bank, and she keeps asking when the house will be ready to go on the market. He tried calling her earlier at her new apartment in Annapolis, but no one picked up. 

Life goes on, he supposes. Meanwhile, he still sleeps in his recliner every night. 

Work goes on, too. He hasn't spoken to Holden since he kicked him out of the car. Holden's desk isn't empty anymore - Jim sits there now - but his absence is palpable. Bill will be sitting at his desk, mulling something over, and before he knows it he’s sticking his head out the door to ask Holden’s opinion. He knows Holden’s not there, but he has a constant, near-Pavlovian impulse to look for him. They’ve always done this work as a pair; being at work without Holden doesn’t make any more sense than being at home without his wife and son. 

After Wendy visited Holden in the hospital, Bill quietly asked her, "How is the kid?"

"Sick," she said shortly. "You should go see him."

He doesn’t, though, and he’s not sure why. Whenever he thinks about picking up the phone or driving to his apartment, he just can't. They're two magnets repelling each other. 

He drops his empty beer can next to the recliner and pops open another. It's not even cold, but he doesn't care. He finally nods off into a boozy, fitful sleep and dreams of Brian and Holden walking through a forest of tall white crosses.

He wakes up the next morning with a cotton-tasting mouth and a dull ache grinding in his temples. He shuffles to the bathroom and splashes water on his face, then sighs at himself in the mirror. He’s developed a habit of sort of looking through his reflection, not really noticing his floridly bloodshot eyes or the paunch growing around his middle from all the beer and simple carbohydrates. But he’d have to be blind not to see how shitty he looks today, with crumbs and barbecue sauce on yesterday’s undershirt and a three-day growth of stubble on his face. He looks every inch the stereotypical aging, lonely, sad-sack loser he is. 

He moves mindlessly through showering, shaving and dressing. Breakfast is a cup of sugary coffee and two cigarettes. It's a Saturday, but he can't stomach the thought of a full day in his house alone. He heads to work. 

The basement at Quantico is quiet except for the pinging and sighing of pipes. Bill lights up a cigarette, pulls a file from the top of his inbox, and starts reading. 

The ringing of the phone is jarring as a scream. Bill involuntarily jerks, then scowls at himself as he lifts the receiver. "Bill Tench." 

"Hey," says Holden.

"Hey," Bill says, nonplussed. "What's up?"

There's a long pause. He hears Holden taking deep, slow, strange breaths.

"Holden?"

"Do - do we have a flight today?"

Ice forms in the pit of Bill's stomach. "What do you mean, a flight? You've been off work for almost two months."

"Oh… yeah." He sounds deeply uncertain. There's a faraway quality to his voice. "Yeah. Okay, bye, Bill."

"Wait, are you -"

Holden hangs up.

Bill stares at the receiver. Maybe the kid's medications are making him loopy. Maybe he was half-asleep and got mixed up for a minute. But Holden doesn't get confused. He can be stubborn, myopic, sometimes straight-up wrong, but he's never confused.

Bill punches Holden's number into the phone. The line rings and rings, but no one answers. 

What the hell to do? Bill casts his bloodshot eyes wildly around the room, looking for someone, anyone, to dump this responsibility on, but it's Saturday. He finds a phone book and tries to look up Holden’s apartment building, to see if there's a listing for the superintendent or somebody, but he comes up empty. He wonders about calling 911 and asking someone to do a welfare check, but he’s an FBI agent, for crying out loud. He should be able to handle this. He supposes he has to. 

_Shit._

Guts twisted with anxiety, Bill drives to Holden's apartment. He speeds up to blow through yellow lights and uses his badge to get past the doorman. He's already decided to kick down the door if he has to. 

Fortunately it's not locked. The first thing Bill registers is a rush of hot, dry air; the kid must have his thermostat cranked as high as it will go. He knows Holden tends to run cold, but this is ridiculous. 

He's only been to Holden's apartment once before, and he remembers being taken aback by how sparse and neat it was, almost sterile. Now the air smells like garbage and spoiled food. Tiptoeing inside, Bill sees the kitchen sinks and counters are covered with dirty dishes and take-out containers. The coffee table is scattered with drinking glasses and balled-up kleenex, and one of the sofa cushions is missing its cover. There's a hole, about six inches across at shoulder height, smashed through the drywall. 

‘Holden?’ he calls out.

No answer. Everything's still and stale and eerie as a crime scene. 

‘Hey, Holden!"

The door to the bedroom is ajar and Bill peeks inside. The bed is stripped with the sheets lying on a pile on top. There’s a basket full of unfolded clothes, and more laundry strewn around the floor.

Holden never leaves things lying on the floor, not even in hotel rooms.

Bill looks in the bathroom and sighs. "Aw kid."

Holden sits curled up next to the toilet, back against the wall. His eyes are closed and his head hangs forward, chin to his his chest. He’s wearing a t-shirt and boxers, and he has a blue-and-red afghan draped around his shoulders. A tangle of blankets and pillows make a sort of nest on the bathroom floor. 

‘Holden.’ Bill kneels down and touches his arm gently, trying not to scare him, but Holden doesn't even twitch. ‘Holden!’ he repeats with rising alarm, shaking him. ‘Hey!’

Holden groans and flails weakly, and his eyes finally crack open. ‘’ill?’ he croaks, bewildered. 

‘Yeah. You had me worried for a minute. You all right?"

Holden doesn’t answer, just squints in confusion. His hair has thinned and Bill can see where chunks of it have fallen out, as if he has mange. His naturally deep-set eyes are sunken into purple craters in his skull. 

‘Have you been sleeping in here? On the floor?’

Holden has a thing about germs. It falls short of an obsession, but he’s definitely more careful than the average person. He once poured out a full beer because Bill drank from his bottle by mistake. He brings his own pillowcases to motels, for Christ’s sake. Bill can’t imagine a scenario that would prompt him to bed down on a bathroom floor.

‘I keep throwing up," Holden whispers.

‘Aw kid. How long has it been like this?’ 

Holden folds in on himself and wraps his arms around his middle. He suddenly retches and Bill instinctively jumps back, but nothing comes up. There’s probably nothing to bring up, Bill realizes; even the whites of the kid’s eyes look dried out. 

‘Are you keeping down any fluids?’ Holden just blinks slowly at him. ‘Holden. Have you been able to drink anything?’

Holden looks at the floor. ‘I keep throwing up,’ he mumbles again. 

‘OK,’ Bill says with a false air of assuredness. ‘We need to get you dressed, and then we’re going to the hospital.’

‘No…’

‘Come on. Can you stand up?’ He grips Holden under the arms and hoists him to his feet. Holden tries, but his legs won’t hold him and he collapses bonelessly against Bill. Holden’s never been a large guy, but he’s strong and solidly built and Bill is shocked at how easy it is to support his weight. He must be down thirty pounds, if not more. 

He manhandles Holden into a pair of pajama pants and his coat. Holden whines in protest, but he's too weak and dazed to mount any real resistance. He dry heaves a few times and leans heavily on Bill as they make their way to the elevator. 

_Has he been like this the entire time?_ The thought of Holden so sick and alone for over a month is almost too painful to bear. "Aw kid, I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he finds himself murmuring as Holden gags and coughs in his arms. 

He maneuvers Holden out to the car and lowers him carefully into the passenger seat. The kid is completely passive as Bill buckles him in; Bill can't tell if he's not fully aware of what's happening, or if he's just too weak to respond. Is this simple dehydration, or something else? Is it the cancer getting worse? Did he take too much medication, by accident? On purpose? The thought makes Bill's stomach seize, but he finds he can't entirely dismiss the idea. 

Holden drifts in and out as they drive. Whenever his eyes flutter closed, Bill shakes his knee hard and shouts at him to stay awake. He tries to coax Holden to talk to him, but all he gets in reply is a few incoherent mumbles.

_He could have called me sooner. I would have come._

_You threw him out of your car, _a guilty little voice reminds him._ _

__

At the hospital, Bill parks and jogs to the ER entrance to get a wheelchair. "Bill? Where are we?" Holden slurs when he returns. 

__

__"At the hospital. Gonna get you fixed up."_ _

__

__"Leave me 'lone," he mumbles irritably, but Bill ignores him and hefts him awkwardly into the wheelchair. He slumps progressively further and further down as they wait in what seems to Bill to be an unreasonably long line at the triage station, until Bill has to grip his coat to stop him from slithering out if the chair entirely._ _

__

As soon as the triage nurse hears the words "cancer" and "chemotherapy," though, things start moving. Within seconds, she has a surgical mask on Holden's face and she whisks him back to a small room set apart from the rest of the curtained-off beds. Bill notices the handwritten sign taped to the door: ISOLATION - THIS DOOR **MUST** STAY CLOSED!!! **WASH YOUR HANDS!!!!** it blares. He hesitates, not sure if he's allowed to go inside, but Holden calls out "Bill?" in a plaintive voice and the nurse waves him in. It's a tiny green-tiled room barely big enough for a hospital bed and an uncomfortable visitors chair. 

__

__"One of the other nurses will be in in a minute," she tells him. "Can you help him get into a gown?"_ _

__

__"Uh, I'm not -" Bill starts, but she's already out the door._ _

__

__With a sigh, Bill helps Holden out of his t-shirt and pajama bottoms and into the blue hospital gown that's sitting at the end of the bed. He tries hard not to stare at the catheter dangling from Holden's chest, although Holden's probably beyond noticing. It's like dressing an overgrown baby, and Bill breathes a sigh of relief when he finally eases Holden back into bed and pulls the sheet over his legs._ _

__

__A few minutes later, another nurse comes in, this time decked in gown, gloves and mask and carrying a clipboard and a handful of empty vials. She asks about Holden's birth date and insurance, and Bill realizes two things: he doesn't have Holden's wallet, and he can't remember his birthday. He thinks it's sometime in June. She tells him not to worry about it, they can get the information from the cancer centre, and turns her attention to the crumpled figure in the bed._ _

__

__"Hi, Holden," she says in a friendly voice that makes Bill bristle._ _

__

_"Holden"? Whatever happened to "Agent Ford?"_ Holden's sick, but he's still an adult. 

__

__"My name's Ivy, I'm a nurse. What's going on with you today?"_ _

__

__"I… 'm tired," Holden mumbles. He seems at a loss to elaborate further, and looks beseechingly up at Bill._ _

__

__"We're partners. With the FBI," Bill explains. "He has Hodgkin's disease and he's going through chemo. He's been on sick leave for months, but he called me this morning asking if we had a flight today. I went to his apartment to check on him and he was drowsy and confused. I couldn’t get much out of him, but I don’t think he’s been keeping down fluids very well.’_ _

__

__Ivy nods sympathetically. "Have you been throwing up a lot, Holden?"_ _

__

__He nods._ _

__

__"We'll try to help you with that, okay? Can I see your hand?" She presses on a fingernail and lightly pinches the skin on his wrist. "It's a good thing you came in, you're dried right out. Can I ask you some questions? Holden?’ she prompts, when he doesn’t respond._ _

__

__He nods again. His head barely moves._ _

__

__"Do you know where you are?"_ _

__

__"Hospital."_ _

__

__"Which hospital?"_ _

__

__Holden frowns. He doesn't say anything._ _

__

__"What’s the date today?"_ _

__

__"...fall.’_ _

__

__"Who's the President of the United States?"_ _

__

__Silence._ _

__

_Aw, kid._ "It's Ronald Reagan," Bill tells him gently. Holden doesn’t react. 

__

__"That's okay, Holden. Just rest now, all right?’ Ivy turns to Bill. ‘What does he usually take for nausea?’_ _

__

__‘I don’t know.’ He looks to Holden, but the kid’s curled up with his eyes closed, giving no sign that he even hears them._ _

__

__"Do you know his chemo regimen?’_ _

__

__‘No,’ Bill admits, feeling useless and ashamed._ _

__

__‘What about the date of his last treatment?’_ _

__

__‘I don’t know.’_ _

__

__'Who’s his caregiver?’_ _

__

__‘Caregiver?’ Bill echoes, confused. ‘You mean, like his doctor?’ He doesn’t know the answer to that, either._ _

__

__‘No, I mean, who looks after him at home?’_ _

__

__‘Oh. No one, I don't think.’ Shame bites at his heart. He’s a horrible person. He’s the one who deserves to be in a hospital bed, not Holden._ _

__

__Her brows knit. ‘No one? But you’re sure he’s being treated at this hospital, correct?’_ _

__

'Right,’ Bill agrees, relieved that he knows at least _something_ relevant. ‘I picked him up at the cancer centre after they put in his - chest thing.’ _And then I kicked him out and left him in the street._

____

__‘OK.’ She tugs down Holden’s hospital gown and takes a perfunctory look at the catheter. ‘Holden? Have you been having any problems with your line?’_ _

____

__Holden mumbles something indistinct and twists away from her hands. She gently pushes him back.. "Just relax, Holden. I need to look you over and take some blood samples."_ _

____

__Ivy examines Holden, taking his temperature, pulse, blood pressure, while Bill fidgets nervously, trying to read her eyes for any reaction. Bill can't help but stare as she uncaps the Hickman line and Holden's blood splashes into the little glass test tube. She seems to take a disconcertingly large amount, deftly switching out the vials as each one is filled._ _

____

__"Is he going to be all right?" he finally asks, unable to contain himself._ _

____

__"The doctor will see him in a few minutes."_ _

____

__When she finally leaves, Bill sits down heavily in the visitors chair and drags a hand over his face. He crosses his arms, then uncrosses them. Sits back, leans forward again. He feels like he should be doing something, or calling someone, but he has no idea what or who. He wishes he could smoke._ _

____

__Holden seems to be asleep, curled up on his side like a shrimp. He doesn't look like the partner Bill knows; without his sidearm and suit and nearly coiffed hair, he looks very young and frail. On his arm, right where Bill had gripped it to pull him out of the car, are ripening purple bruises in the pattern of four fingertips and a thumb. Bill's gripped by a fresh wave of self-loathing. He pushes down an impulse to stroke the kid's hair; they're both grown men, for Christ's sake, and besides, it looks so lank and brittle that Bill thinks a whole swath could just come out in his hand. Holden must be losing his mind over it.__

______ _ _

_You could have called me._

______ _ _

_I would have come._

______ _ _


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wee lil' update, because I can't focus worth beans these days.

The world comes in flashes: fluorescent lights flying past overhead, Bill's grim expression, a warmed blanket being tucked around him. The only good thing about the hospital is the warmed blankets. He's always so cold lately. 

When Holden finally wakes up for real, clear-headed and ferociously thirsty, he's in bed in a private room, sunlight filtering through the window blinds and the IV bags hanging overhead. 

"Bill?" he croaks. But when he looks over at the visitors chair, it's empty. Because of course it is. After all this time, it's silly of him to be disappointed.

He remembers calling Bill about catching a flight, but vaguely, like it was something he did in a dream or while he was drunk. He's not sure what he was thinking, except that it seemed like a reasonable question at the time. 

'

And  _ God,  _ he needs water. He fumbles for the call button. 

A nurse comes in; he's seen her before but he can't remember her name. "Hello, Holden. How are you feeling?"

"Thirsty," he whispers.

"You can have a few ice chips. If that goes well, you can have a little water later on."

"I'm  _ really  _ thirsty."

"I know, but you're getting fluids by IV. It won't help to make yourself vomit by trying to drink too much."

He's a 32 year old FBI agent and he needs permission for a cup of water. He momentarily considers getting up and helping himself from the bathroom tap, but his muscles don't want to work. He doubts he could sit up if his life depended on it. 

"Do you want ice chips or not?"

No, he doesn't want fucking ice chips. He wants _water_. He wants to be at home, and he wants to be wearing his normal clothes and doing what he wants to do and eating and drinking whatever he chooses because he's an adult who can make those decisions for himself. He wants his hair and his body back the way they were, and he wants to get up on Monday morning and go to work with Bill and Wendy and Gregg and Jim, even if he still sort of hates them a little. He wishes Bill were here. 

But because ice chips are the only offer he has, and because he finds himself embarrassingly close to crying over a glass of water, he just closes his eyes and nods. 

‘I’ll be right back,’ she tells him sweetly.

_ Oh, fuck you, lady. _

A minute or so later, he hears footsteps approaching. His throat is killing him and ice chips are better than nothing, so he opens his eyes and -

‘Bill?’

Bill shuffles his feet guiltily. ‘Sorry, kid, did I wake you up?’

‘No, I just… I thought you left.’ He can’t quite believe it. He tries to straighten up in bed but only manages to squirm feebly.

‘I went to grab a coffee. You've been sleeping for hours.’ Bill sits down in the visitors chair and leans forward, studying Holden intently. ‘You look better. More with it.’

‘I’m okay. Thirsty.'

‘I bet. They said you were severely dehydrated and had an electrolyte imbalance." Bill sighs and laces his fingers together. ‘How long since you could keep down any water?’

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ Holden whispers. He doesn't want to make Bill angry at him, but he just can't.

Bill opens his mouth like he’s ready to argue, but seems to change his mind. ‘Okay,’ he says lightly, and leans back to snag the TV remote from the bedside table. He props his feet up on the end of Holden’s bed and starts flipping channels until he finds a football game. Holden's never liked football, but he got used to it during road school and he's just glad Bill's here. 

The nurse comes back with a Styrofoam cup of ice chips and tells him to eat them slowly. The moment she's out the door, he gobbles them down greedily, unable to restrain himself. The wetness in his mouth and throat makes him groan with relief. Bill glances over, half-concerned, half-amused. "Good?"

Holden nods sheepishly, and stares into the empty cup. His stomach still doesn't feel right - those few mouthfuls of ice chips are sitting like a brick - but he doesn't care. 

"Do you want some stuff from your apartment? I can bring it by tomorrow," Bill says after a few minutes, eyes still on the TV.

_ He's going to come back.  _ Holden's embarrassed by the potency of his own feelings. Suddenly he's acutely conscious of how alone he's been, and he feels like crying again.

"My toothbrush and stuff. My striped blanket," he whispers, not completely trusting his voice. "Thanks, Bill."

"S'okay."

The movement on the screen makes Holden queasy, and he turns his eyes to the wall. He hadn’t meant to let it get this far, but he's so tired of the hospital. He'd just been discharged on Thursday after a three-night stay for his last IV treatment, and he was supposed to be admitted _ again  _ on Monday for  _ another  _ round of IV drugs. So when he woke up on Friday morning and found he couldn’t keep down the merest sip of water, he did nothing. He knew that wasn’t what he was supposed to do, but he was so exhausted and sick that the thought of packing a bag and walking downstairs and riding in a cab to go back to a lonely hospital room… he couldn’t bring himself to even try. It was easier to drag some pillows and blankets into the bathroom and just lie back down.

He should have tried harder. Done better. It's his own fault he's here. 

_ You deserve all of this,  _ his mind whispers. 

He's so tired, right down to his bones. He tries to keep his eyes open, but he can't. These days, sleep grabs him like an undertow and forces him under, one more thing he can't control. He doesn't want to fall asleep, because he's afraid that Bill will leave and not come back. It's a pitiful, childish fear, but he can't help it. He's afraid all the time now. He twitches and struggles to open his eyes, but they're so heavy, and his thoughts keep phasing in and out of focus. 

"Hey, now." A big, warm hand comes to rest on his arm. "It's all right. Just rest."

He wants to say something, but his brain and tongue don't cooperate. He can't fight it anymore.

"It's gonna be all right. Just sleep now."

Holden does. 

  
  
  
  


  
  



	7. Come to Jesus

The hospital never rests. Even at night it's full of sound and activity, so unlike the stillness of his apartment. Holden endures a confused, fractured sleep and dreams about shards of broken glass. He's trying desperately to pick them up, but the pieces keep shattering in his hands until blood drips between his fingers.

He's not ready to wake up when the day shift starts at 7 a m., but the nurse needs to take his temperature, check his blood pressure, swap out his IV bags, draw blood samples and give him pills to swallow, so he doesn't have much choice. He notices the chemo drugs are missing, but the nurse, who already seems harassed, tells him impatiently that she doesn't know and it's the doctor who writes the orders, not her. She shoves a specimen cup in his general direction and informs him that he's to provide a urine sample the next time he uses the bathroom. 

It's fortunate, then, that he also has to pee for the first time in about 36 hours. He climbs cautiously out of bed and totters to the bathroom on shaky baby-deer legs. The sample he provides is a startling reddish brown colour, more like iced tea than piss, but he's given up being surprised by his own body or even engaging in speculation. If something's really wrong, he'll be told about it soon enough.

Breakfast is plain toast, a banana, green Jello, a glass of milk and a cup of tea. He's not hungry, but tomorrow he might not be able to eat again for four or five days, so he knows he should try. He eats the banana, drinks the tea with a little milk in it, and decides not to press his luck any further. 

He sips water and watches the Sunday morning news shows, dozing on and off until there's a knock on his door, and Bill walks in, tossing a leather overnight bag on the end of the bed. 

"Hey. You look better today."

"Yeah, I feel better. Thanks for bringing my stuff." He pulls the bag onto his lap and starts digging through it, anxious to brush his teeth. His mouth tastes like a gym sock. He's surprised and a little touched at the obvious care Bill's taken in packing for him - not only is there his toothbrush, but a few t-shirts, pajama pants, his slippers, some books and magazines he'd left lying around, and a full set of clothes to wear home. He even put in his gloves and his warm hat, mindful of the chilly weather. There's no afghan, but he assumes Bill forgot and he doesn't want to sound ungrateful by mentioning it. 

An alarming thought occurs to him. "Wait, was my apartment unlocked this whole time?"

"Don't worry, I locked the door behind us. I got the super to open it back up."

Holden raises his eyebrows at that - good to know that Ernie apparently just lets people into apartments when the tenants aren't home - but on the other hand, he gets it. Since he stopped working, and especially now that he's visibly unwell, the super and doorman find all kinds of flimsy excuses to call or knock on his door, probably to reassure themselves he hasn't died in there since the last time. Holden doesn't know any of the neighbours very well, but there are a lot of familiar faces in the building and lately they all look unnerved when they see him. He himself avoids mirrors as much as possible.

Bill hovers for a few moments, hands shoved in his pockets. "Do you want me to…" he says finally, thrusting his chin at the chair.

Holden shrugs. "Sure. Want some Jello?" He points to the untouched container still sitting on his breakfast tray.

"Nah," Bill half-chuckles and tosses his coat over the back of the chair. He sits down and starts looking around for the remote; they're already out of things to talk about. So he rests his feet up on the bed and they watch the news instead. 

  
  
  


When Holden was a cadet at the Academy, he had a course called Interrogation Techniques. The instructor had talked about the "Come to Jesus moment," when a suspect finally realizes he,s in deep trouble and he has to make a choice: turn informant, or dig in his heels and suffer the consequences. Holden's been part of hundreds of such moments over the years, so he immediately realizes what's happening when Dr. Rashad sweeps into the room and stands at the foot of the bed, a deep frown cleaving his mournful Basset-hound face. 

Bill recognizes it, too. He clicks off the TV and looks back and forth between them, as if to ask if he should leave, but Holden doesn't say anything and neither does the doctor. 

"I see you managed to do quite a number on yourself," Dr. Rashad starts in disapprovingly, as if Holden had done it on purpose. "You came in yesterday severely dehydrated, so much so you had an electrolyte balance that could have literally stopped your heart. But you didn't wait for  _ that  _ to happen, at least, so we were able to treat you with IV fluids and medications and this morning's blood work looks much better. But there's another problem." 

Oh Christ.

"Because you were so dehydrated, you sustained an acute kidney injury. It's relatively mild -"

Oh thank God.

" - and your kidney function should be back to normal within a few weeks. But the real problem is -"

Oh Christ. He can't take much more of this. It would be almost funny, except it's not. 

" - you're in the middle of a chemo cycle. You're due for another infusion tomorrow, plus a second week of oral chemotherapy. Right now your kidneys can't handle that. The drugs are too toxic to them, and to the rest of your body if your kidneys can't filter them properly. It wouldn't be safe. So we have to stop chemo for now and resume in a few weeks at the start of the next cycle."

Part of Holden leaps at the knowledge he won't have chemo tomorrow, but he can sense it's nothing to be happy about.

Bill's looking back and forth again, clearly anxious to be helpful. "Maybe a break's not such a bad thing, if it's making him so sick."

Dr. Rashad huffs. "It  _ is  _ a bad thing. By missing a treatment, all the cancerous cells that would have been killed are not only still alive, but they're dividing and growing more cancer all the time. We actually  _ lose _ progress from previous treatments."

Holden's cheeks and ears are hot. He can feel Bill's eyes boring into him. Rebuking him. He's screwed up again.

"Also, by tampering with the schedule, there's the risk of the cells developing drug resistance." He hears Bill suck in a breath. "What will you do, Holden, when you're 32, 33 years old and the chemotherapy doesn't work anymore? You don't want this. You could live another fifty years if we can treat this thing successfully."

He doesn't need to be convinced. He doesn't want to die, or to disappoint anyone; it's not like he meant for this to happen. He wishes they would stop staring at him. 

"I know this is difficult," Dr. Rashad continues in a more sympathetic tone. "It's an aggressive regimen and unfortunately you're not tolerating it as well as we'd hoped. But you need to do everything you can stay healthy enough to get your treatments on time. If you can't keep anything down, you need to come to the hospital, period.

"There's also the matter of your weight. You've lost over fifteen percent of your body weight since you were diagnosed. If you keep losing at this rate, that's also going to interfere with your ability to get your treatments on time.

There's some other antinausea medications I'd like to try, and I'll send you to see a dietitian. But if those things don't help, we will have to discuss a feeding tube until you're able to eat well enough on your own again."

He can't have another tube. He can't. Even looking at the Hickman line still makes anxiety bubble up inside his gut. Breathe, he reminds himself.

"Is nausea the only problem? Or are you also too fatigued to feed yourself properly?"

Holden swallows hard around the lump in his throat. He doesn't know how to explain how much work is suddenly required to make a sandwich or heat a pot of soup. He may as well summit a mountain as take a trip to the supermarket. He only has so much energy, and sometimes he has to spend it taking a shower or checking the mail or doing a load of laundry, even if it means he won't eat later. 

He can  _ feel  _ them looking, expecting an answer, and there's no way to make them understand.

"As we've discussed, it's very difficult for patients to cope on their own without assistance. And when we factor in a psychiatric problem -"

He tenses at the words "psychiatric problem." He certainly knows Bill's position on  _ that.  _

" - you need to think hard about how you're going to manage this and do what's required for your health. For now, we're going to keep you under observation for another day and hopefully get you home tomorrow."

Holden nods numbly. Yes, he understands. No, no questions. He stares hard at his hands, cheeks and eyes burning, until the doctor leaves. He finally forces himself to look at Bill, who looks back at him with a stricken expression. 

"Aw, kid," Bill sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry. I didn't think it was this bad."

"It's cancer, Bill. How bad did you think it was?" He hates that his voice wobbles. 

Bill's face creases. He tightens his lips and rocks back in his chair, folding his arms. There's a long pause.

"Maybe you should come stay with me for awhile."

Holden huffs bitterly. "Right."

"I'm serious. If you can't look after yourself, you shouldn't be on your own."

"I'm not a child, Bill."

"No one said - Look, Holden, this isn't about making you feel less than you are, or babysitting you, or whatever else you've convinced yourself everyone's trying to do to you -"

"I haven't convinced myself of anything. You  _ told  _ me, remember, in Atlanta -"

"That has nothing to do with it. It's over and done with. You're sick, and everyone just wants to help."

No one really wants to help him. They just pity him now - contempt with a candy coating.

"I'm not your responsibility. We're not partners anymore."

"God, Holden, it's not about being  _ partners -" _

"What then? Are we  _ friends  _ now?"

Bill pulls his cigarette pack out of his pocket and fingers it. He rocks tormentedly in his seat. 

"I don't know. I just don't want you to die, all right?" he says quietly.

_ Well, now. That is the truth.  _ Without warning,  __ Kemper's words flash through Holden's head and his throat closes. He stares down at his hands, and his vision is suddenly swimming from tears. 

"All right, Bill," he says thickly. "All right."

Bill doesn't stay long after that and once he leaves, the nurse detaches Holden's IV so he can shower. He almost shivers with anticipation; it's been a few days, and the feeling of his own grimy skin is becoming unbearable. 

He strips off his hospital gown and seals the ends of the Hickman in the special waterproof pouch that the nurses taught him to use. The shower spray is warm and soothing, and it relaxes all his stiff, achy places that come with spending too much time in bed and on the floor.

By the time he's finished, the bathroom is full of steam. He wipes the fog from the mirror with his hand, and his reflection springs into focus. Bony cheekbones and shoulders, jutting collarbones, sunken eyes. The catheter in his chest.

His  _ hair _ . 

His head is a crazy-quilt of naked skin and irregular patches of thin, weedy-looking hair. A few more good-sized chunks have just fallen out, and they lie in sad sodden clots on the shower floor. It's no wonder he's been getting strange looks. 

He looks in the mirror and a sick person looks back at him.

He spends a long few minutes staring into his own eyes, finally turning away to rummage in his toilet bag. He hopes Bill remembered his razor. 

  
  
  


Bill drives home on autopilot, smoking furiously. In his mind's eye he keeps seeing the Pinto hurtling towards them, and Holden being flung sideways against his seatbelt while glass explodes around him.

All it will take is a single cell. If even one resilient little mutant motherfucker manages to survive, Holden will be gone. 

_ It's one thing if it's the job, but… _

A paper bag sits on the passenger seat, with a bunch of pamphlets and things at the bottom. He found it in Holden's front closet this morning, when he was looking for his hat and gloves, and decided to do some reading. 

When he steps through his door, the living room smells like stale beer. There's a mound of crushed cans on the floor next to his recliner, and wrappers from the Halloween candy are littered everywhere. A few crusty TV dinner trays are still sitting out on the little folding table. 

He walks into the kitchen and sees all the pizza boxes and take-out containers and soda cups as if for the first time. 

Compared to this dump, Holden's apartment belongs in  _ Good Housekeeping.  _

He finds some black garbage bags under the sink and starts stuffing the mess inside. He takes two bulging bags out to the trash cans. He empties the kitchen a garbage container and the one in the bathroom for good measure. 

Then he finds a pen and a napkin and starts making his shopping list.

  
  
  
  
  



	8. Coming 'Home'

Bill stays up late on Sunday night, making phone calls, reading pamphlets and cleaning. It's early Monday morning when he finally falls asleep in his recliner, and it feels like he just closed his eyes when his alarm clock goes off, but he's energized, purposeful in a way he hasn't felt since he walked through the front door after Atlanta.

He does a final walk-through before leaving for the office. The house looks even emptier with all of the mess gone, although he has to admit the smell has improved. He's fixed up the bedroom as best he can, considering the only article of furniture is the bed itself; he put on the spare sheets Nancy left behind,  set up one of the folding TV tables to serve as a nightstand, and moved his clothes into Brian's old closet.

The kitchen's well stocked after a hasty trip to the 24-hour Safeway, armed with a pamphlet from the bag.  _ Many chemotherapy patients find it easier to tolerate a bland, low-fat, low-fibre diet…dry toast, plain pasta or rice, applesauce, cottage cheese, skinless chicken or turkey… _

_ Poor bastard _ , Bill thinks, wrinkling his nose as he surveys a cupboard - the powdered instant potatoes lined up next to the unsalted crackers and unflavoured cream of wheat. It seems especially unfair that, after puking up his guts for days on end, Holden can’t even have anything remotely satisfying to eat. From the detritus in his apartment, it looks like the kid's been living off Rice Krispies. 

The whole situation makes no sense. He's been smoking a pack a day since Holden was a babe in arms, yet somehow he's still healthy and Holden isn't. He remembers teasing Holden for eating salads, and Holden's reproachful expression as he poured cascades of sugar into diner coffees.

Nothing's fair and nothing makes sense.

Bill consciously shoves the thought down; there's no time to ruminate on things he can't change. Holden's probably going to be released today, and he needs to get to Quantico figure out what he's going to do about work for the next few days, in case Holden’s not well enough to be left alone.

Wendy's already there when he arrives at work, documents fanned out on her desk as she makes notes on a legal pad.

Three new files have materialized in Bill's inbox, teetering atop an already precarious stack. Two he recognizes as preparation materials for upcoming interviews, and the other has a sticky note intriguingly inscribed  _ USPP - Big Smoky Mountains Ntl Park _ . And his phone's already ringing. Maybe he'll get lucky and Holden will have to stay in the hospital another night, so he can at least get a few things off his plate.

"Hey. I'm discharged," Holden says when Bill picks up the phone. 

"Right now? I literally just walked in the door."

"Yeah, I talked to the doctor, and as soon as the nurse unhooks my IV, I can leave."

Bill eyes the pile on his desk mournfully. Given another day or so, he knows it will swell to truly monstrous proportions. "No chance you can just hang out till lunch or something?"

"It's not like requesting a late check-out time, Bill. They need the room."

"No, of course - just -"

"I can take a cab home."

Bill sighs. He knows Holden's ambivalent about staying with him, to say the least; if the kid goes back to his apartment alone, Bill will never get him out again. "No, no, it's okay. I'll be right there."

"Okay." A long pause. "Thanks, Bill."

"All right. I'm leaving now." Bill hangs up with a sigh. He stuffs the new files into his briefcase and raps lightly on Wendy's door. 

"Hey. I know the timing's not great, but I need today off, and maybe tomorrow."

Wendy fixes him with a deep frown. "We have a new consult, and we have to prepare for the Gersen and Delacroix interviews."

"I know, but… Holden’s being released from the hospital. I have to pick him up."

"Oh." She looks surprised. "I didn't realize you two had kept in touch since he went off. He's back in the hospital?"

"Yeah, he called over the weekend." She doesn't need to know the full story. "He's in pretty rough shape."

Wendy sets down her pen. She squares her shoulders and swallows almost imperceptibly. "The cancer's progressing, then."

"I don't think it's that - the doctor seems to think it's treatable - but the chemo's really knocking him on his ass. He's having a hard time managing on his own, so he's gonna stay with me for awhile."

"You're going to be his caregiver?"

That word again. __ "Not really, just helping him out till he gets some strength back." 

"That's wonderful of you, Bill, but that might not be for a while. Holden's seriously ill, he could require a lot of care for a long time. You have Brian as well, and Gunn's not going to allow you a lot of time off, not with the workload we have."

"I know. I'll figure it out somehow." 

"I've been remiss not to visit, but it only seemed to upset him when Jim and I went…"

"It's Holden. He's... moody."

"If you take this on, you have to be prepared to see it through as long as he needs you to, whatever the outcome. It's not fair to him otherwise."

Bill sighs again, and looks Wendy in the eye.

"I'm taking the day today, to pick him up from the hospital."

She nods briskly and picks up her pen. "OK, Bill. Tell him hello for me and that I hope he feels better soon."

He turns to leave and, out of the corner of his eye, he sees her lips curl up in a smile. 

At the hospital, Bill's pleasantly surprised to find Holden already dressed and packed and perched on the edge of the bed, swinging his legs restlessly. He has some colour in his cheeks and he looks almost like himself again, except he's wearing the hoodie and sweatpants that Bill packed for him instead of his suit. And his gray knit hat that he's pulled down over his ears, in spite of the hospital being kept at the approximate temperature of a dying sun. 

"Hey. What's with the hat?" Bill greets him. Holden doesn't really do hats, even when it's cold enough to warrant one. He's always bitching that they mess up his...

_ Oh,shit. _

Holden’s eyes are like saucers.

"Did - ?" Bill asks abortively, and gestures at his own head.

"Yeah," Holden mumbles, blushing furiously. "It just kept falling out, so I… helped it along a little."

"You  _ shaved  _ it?"

"What was left of it. One more chemo treatment would've finished it off anyway." He fiddles  with the sleeves of his sweater. "It feels weird, though. It  _ looks  _ weird."

"God, Holden." Bill rocks back on his heels to consider this new information. 

"It was nice not waking up with hair all over my pillow, though," Holden offers, as if to make Bill feel better. "Or in my mouth. I'm surprised I'm not coughing up hairballs."

Bill thinks back to mornings in shared motel rooms, when he used to bark at Holden to quit fussing with his hair and hurry up. He's not sure what to say. The kid loved his hair, so he doesn't want to minimize the loss, but acting like it's some kind of disaster will only make Holden feel worse. He opts for honest curiosity. "You gonna show me?" 

"Maybe some other time," Holden says, placing a protective hand over his hat like he thinks Bill is going to snatch it off or something. "Once I get used to it.

Bill sincerely doubts that Holden's ever going to get used to being bald.  "You good to go?" he asks.

"Yeah."

Bill moves to pick up Holden's overnight bag, but Holden snags it first and leads the way to the elevators. His gait is more of a shuffle than a stride, but he's impressively steady on his feet, considering that two days ago he couldn't even sit up. Maybe he's more resilient than Bill thought; after all, he's only 32. 

But it's cold and drizzly outside, and Holden starts shivering as soon as the wind hits him. One of the nurses explained to Bill that, between his weight loss and his generally weakened state, Holden can't conserve heat, hence cocooning him in warmed blankets. Bill almost puts his arm around him, but he doesn't think Holden would appreciate it. He's keeping a subtle but measured distance between himself and Bill. If Bill inches closer, he pulls back.

The silence hangs heavy in the air on the drive to Holden's apartment. Holden sits off kilter in his seat, hugging the door as if he expects to be ordered out at any moment, and Bill feels like something scraped off the bottom of a shoe. He knows he's failed - he's failed his partner, failed his wife, failed his little boy - but he didn't do it on purpose. He doesn't understand why it seems so hard for everyone to just  _ talk  _ to him instead of shutting him out like he's not even there.

At Holden's, Bill quickly bags up the trash and washes the dirty dishes - as long as there's nothing that's going to rot or attract mice, he figures they can hire a maid service to look after the rest, or maybe Holden can come back and clean more thoroughly once he feels up to it. His eyes keep going back to the fist-sized hole in the living room wall, but Holden makes an elaborate show of pretending not to notice. 

"So I know you said Nancy kind of emptied the place… including the iron, by the looks of things?"

"You really are a modern-day Sherlock Holmes."

Holden goes to the closet and starts pulling out his ironing board. 

"You don't need to iron."

"I like ironing. It helps me think."

"You don't need anything to help you think."

Holden scowls. 

"Seriously, Holden, we're gonna have to haul all this shit down to the car and then haul it all back out again at my place. Let's prioritize." Sleeping in a recliner for five months hasn't done his back any favours. 

Holden mulls it over for a moment before pulling out only the iron. "I can just iron on the bed."

"That's the spirit."

"You have a vacuum cleaner, right?"

Bill responds with a look.

"Jesus Christ, Bill."

"Oh, yeah, and if you want a light in your room? Better grab a lamp."

Holden mutters under his breath - something about "frigging camping" - and stomps off.

By the time Holden's gathered his clothes, personal belongings and assorted household items that even Bill has to concede are generally accepted as essential, there's a formidable amount to move. Holden hovers nervously next to the pile, hands at his sides, rubbing his fingers and thumbs together. 

"What?"

"Have you seen a knitted blanket anywhere? Red and blue stripes?"

"The one you wanted me to bring to the hospital, right?"

Holden blinks, like he's surprised Bill remembers. "Yeah."

"Yeah, it's already at my place."

"Your place," Holden repeats quizzically. 

"Yeah, I was going to bring it to the hospital but you'd - it had some stuff on it."

Holden's eyes dart downward in humiliation. Bill can feel his own face getting hot, though he's not sure exactly why. He clears his throat.

"So anyway. I took it back to my place and washed it for you. Had to call Nancy to find out which settings to use."

Holden's eyes go wide and soft, like Bill's done something wondrous. "Thank you, Bill," he says in an awed voice that would be almost comical if it didn't make Bill's heart squeeze so painfully. For someone so stubbornly self-possessed, Holden has a surprising capacity to be touched by small kindnesses, as if he can't quite believe he's been shown such generosity. It's a disarming quality that Bill had forgotten about - maybe Holden's had a hard time with gratitude lately, or Bill hasn't been particularly kind, or a little of both. He clears his throat again.

"It was just a load of laundry. Anyway. Better get going."

Bill had anticipated that Holden would wait upstairs while Bill went back and forth to the car, but Holden insists on helping. It's sad to see how little he's able to carry, how quickly his pace starts flagging and his breath runs out. He remembers Holden sprinting with a 50 pound cross on his shoulder, and it's shocking to realize how much strength and life have already ebbed out of him. They make three trips back and forth, using the elevator no less, and when they finish Holden almost falls into the passenger seat, panting like he just ran five miles. 

"You good?" Bill asks, in spite of himself. He's resolved not to incessantly ask Holden if he's okay, but the kid's starting to look… not really okay. It had been encouraging to see some colour in Holden's cheeks earlier, but he's growing paler and more visibly miserable by the moment.

"Fine," Holden mutters. He leans his head against the window, and they endure another silent drive.

But when Bill unlocks the door and ushers him inside, the shock gets the better of him. "Oh, wow," he says, wide-eyed. "I know you said… but Jesus, Bill."

"Yeah."

"Maybe  _ you  _ should come stay with  _ me.  _ At least I have furniture."

"A couch is furniture."

"It  _ echoes.  _ How have you been living here? It's like you're squatting in a vacant house."

Bill thinks of another vacant house, and the little chalk outline on the basement floor, and he.clenches his jaw against the memory. 

"Well, it's going to be sold anyway. No point in buying a bunch of new stuff just to pack it all up and move it." That's not the reason, but Holden doesn't need to know that. "Anyway, I got the bedroom ready for you."

"Wait, am I taking your bed?" 

"It's fine. Half the time I just fall asleep in the recliner anyway." Holden doesn't need to know the truth about that, either.

"If you're sure,’ Holden says, plainly unconvinced.

They start emptying the car, and they've made a couple of trips back and forth before Bill suddenly realizes he's walking out the door by himself. Holden's slumped on the couch with his eyes closed, gripping the cushions as if to anchor himself.

"Hey, you all right?"

"D-dizzy," he stammers. His face is gray.

"Shit. Okay." Bill presses the back of his hand to Holden's cheek, checking for fever, but he's cool and clammy. "Take some deep breaths."

"M'all right," Holden murmurs without opening his eyes. "Happens sometimes w-when I overdo it."

_ Shit.  _ He's already pushed him too hard. The kid just got out of the hospital, and there was no reason why they had to bring over all his stuff today. It could have waited until he’d had a chance to rest. Baby steps. 

"What do you need?"

"I need to lie down, that's all."

"Okay. Do you want to lie down here, or in bed?"

"Just - I need to lie down."

"Okay, okay, here, lie back. Put your feet up. There you go."

Holden hides his eyes beneath his arm as Bill slips a throw pillow under his head and eases his shoes off. "I'm sorry," he mumbles. His whole body shakes. 

"Don't apologize, it's okay." Bill hastily retrieves the striped afghan from the bedroom and spreads it over him, pulling it up to his chin. "Warm enough? You need anything?"

"A bowl or something. Case I throw up."

"Okay, hang on." Bill runs to grab the wastebasket from the bathroom - this already involves more running than he'd envisioned - and rushes back to Holden's side. "Here, there's a garbage right next to you. Think you're gonna be sick?"

"No, just - tired."

"Then get some rest. You've had a long day already. It's okay."

"Thanks, Bill," Holden murmurs, already mostly asleep. 

Bill sinks back in the recliner and watches Holden sleep, burrowed under his blanket so only his gray knit hat is visible. It's barely eleven a.m. and the kid's already down for the count, and Bill is suddenly unspeakably afraid for him. How much worse are things going to get? How much worse  _ can  _ they get, before his body just winds down like a watch and stops? Three days ago they weren't even speaking, and now he's near breathless with worry. 

Holden starts snoring quietly, and Bill forcibly reminds himself that Holden's here and, for the moment, he's all right. They wouldn't have let him leave the hospital if he was in any immediate danger. And in the long term, who knows? If someone would have told him a year ago that his son would stand there and watch a toddler being murdered, he would have scoffed. Anything can happen, at any time.

He hefts himself up from the chair and heads to his office, where he can think about work and forget about losing people.

The blanket is warm and familiar, like a hug. Holden dreams about being home sick from school, curled up on the sofa under one of his mother's homemade afghans. His mom stroking his hair.  _ Shh, close your eyes, bunny. You'll feel better soon. _

But that can't be right. His mother is dead. 

He dreams about his parents arguing when they think he can't hear them, his mother saying  _ Holden was up all night coughing again, you  _ have _ to stop smoking in the house. _ His father shooting back that _ asthma is all psychological, it's  _ your _ fault for babying him like you do.  _

_ I hope you'll be satisfied when we're heading to Emergency at three a.m. _

_ I hope  _ you'll _ be satisfied when he's a fucking queer. _

And so on. 

He hates when his parents fight about him. Not that they don't fight about everything else too, but it's worse when he's the cause. It makes him wonder if things might be better, even a little bit, if he were someone else or maybe just not around at all. 

He especially hates it when his mom cries. If he were bigger and stronger, he could do something about it, see how his father likes picking on someone his own size. But he's not. He isn't sure exactly what a queer is, but he knows it involves being shamefully weak and helpless.

When he grows up, he'll never be weak or helpless again.

If sleep is like being caught in an undertow, then waking up is like surfacing, slowly swimming up into consciousness. 

For a moment he's confused by the strange couch and unfamiliar room, before remembering where he is. He lies still for a minute to take stock of his body; waking up in the same condition he fell asleep in is never a given, and he's learned the hard way not to get up too quickly. He's queasy and his head aches a little, but mostly he just needs to pee. It's better than he's felt in days and he knows he should be thankful, but he wishes he were anywhere but here and anyone except himself. 

He's ashamed of his own lack of gratitude, but he doesn't want to be at Bill's. He wishes he were home, where he could find comfort in order and familiarity, instead of in this strange, empty, depressing house with Bill, who seems pretty empty and depressed himself.

He hates that his hair is gone. It's not that his bare scalp is ugly, although it is;  _ obscene  _ is the word that comes to mind. He feels horribly exposed, somehow more than naked. It feels wrong in a way that he associates with particularly artless and unsettling pornography. He hasn't taken off his hat since yesterday, not even to sleep, and he won't today, either. 

He uses the bathroom, washes his hands and looks around for Bill. Through the kitchen window, he sees Bill sitting on the patio with a beer and cigarette. Guilt bubbles up on his chest; he knows Bill is only smoking outside because of him. As if it weren't bad enough that he's putting Bill out of his own bed. If he does end up staying, he'll buy a bed for himself to sleep in, so Bill can have his back. 

His overnight bag is still in the middle of the living room floor where he'd dumped it. He picks it up and heads for the bedroom, but he's distracted by the open door of Bill's office. There are a bunch of police reports and photographs fanned out on the desk. He's drawn to them, magpie-like, and before he realizes what he's doing, he's dropped the bag and plunked himself down on Bill's desk chair. 

It’s a consultation request from the United States Park Police. Between May 1980 and September 1981, the bodies of Martha McCrae, Justine Eddy and Sarah Wohlreich had been found in Big Smoky Mountains National Park. Martha and Sarah were found as skeletal remains, identified through dental records; their bones were scattered and showed score marks ‘consistent with animal activity.’ Both had shattered skulls, ‘consistent with application of force using a blunt instrument,’ and the tattered remnants of nylon rope entwining their wrists and ankles. 

Justine Eddy, however, had been found less than a week after her death, still relatively intact. Her head had also been bludgeoned with something large and heavy, and her arms and legs bound with elaborately-knotted nylon rope. She had been sexually assaulted after death. The three victims range in age from early twenties to mid-forties, all white, all relatively slight and short of stature, and all had been hiking alone in the park when they disappeared.

There's something wrong here, Holden realizes, something strange he can't put his finger on. Crimes have their own internal logic that, once recognized, renders them easy to understand. They follow a pattern, predictable as the course of a river within its banks. This one has some kind of internal contradiction or inconsistency causing the waters to swirl. He can see it, he just needs to figure out what it is. 

"What are you doing?" a voice suddenly booms. 

Holden jumps convulsively, feeling exactly like a child caught with the cookie jar. Bill's standing in the door, pink-cheeked from the cold, scowling. "I was just looking this over and -"

"Leave that alone," Bill chides, softening his voice. "You don't have to worry about that."

"I know, but listen -" If he can just talk it through, process it out loud, it will come to him.

"Holden… you only have so much energy. You don't need to be stressing yourself out over this."

"All I do is sleep and read and watch TV." He knows he's sulking, but he doesn't care. 

"You're sick. That's what you should be doing."

"I can  _ do  _ stuff, Bill, I just have to pace myself and stay within my limits."

"You don't pace yourself, though, and you  _ never  _ stay within the limits."

"Okay, but look, this seems weird -"

"Three women bound and beaten to death in a national park  _ is  _ weird."

"You know what I mean. I'm not sure what it is but -"

"Holden. Stop. I'm not discussing this with you. Why are you doing this to yourself?" 

Bill  _ knows  _ why. He does it for the same reasons that Bill does. It's not like he loves looking at crime scene photos or reading about the awful things done to victims, especially not lately; ever since Atlanta, he wonders about their mothers, and the thought aches like a sensitive tooth. But there's no way he can explain that, especially since Bill won't let him so much as finish a sentence. 

Why do people interrupt him all the time? Talk at him or around him as if he has nothing to contribute? Why don't they listen to him?

"Fine." He slaps the file closed and shoves his hands into his pockets. 

Bill sighs. "Look, it's past lunchtime. You need to eat something. Why don't you check out the kitchen and see if anything looks good?"

He knows nothing will, but there's no point in arguing. "Sure, Bill, sounds good."

They eat their crackers and cream of celery soup in the living room, silently, in front of the TV.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading,and please comment! Constructive feedback is always appreciated. :)


End file.
